


The Prince and the Spy

by Lauredessine



Category: Péché Périple et Promesse
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Enemies to Lovers, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25903657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauredessine/pseuds/Lauredessine
Summary: Self Indulgent fragment of a fanfic I had the idea of because I am obsessed with my friend's book and I wanted to write an Enemies to Lovers AU of.The Original Book is set in a world torn apart by a war of religion wherein Kamil Dollet, a young translator whose work revolves around translating the "heretic" Bible is all of a sudden abandoned by the Prince, his protector and benefactor setting in motion dreadful events that threaten both of their lives but will also bring them closer together than ever. (It's really awesome and I am obsessed)
Relationships: Kamil/Andreas





	The Prince and the Spy

“The translator is here, your highness,” Andreas is told, when deep into a military report regarding uprisings down in Selphur. His brows are furrowed, his eyes blazing with a wave of anger artfully repressed. His knuckles are white around the arm-rests and if anyone asks him, he’s not feeling so at ease in his princely shoes.

Sometimes he wishes he were a petty nobleman with petty matters and petty talks and petty ambitions. But he is a prince and a part of him relishes the idea of being of use for the greater good. It was God’s plan after all, and Andreas is set on fulfilling it.

And the translator is part of that plan. He can be of use. Andreas knows it.

It’s not for nothing if his framework revolves around the Bible. The plesist Bible more specifically. And it is certainly not for nothing that his footsteps led him to the royal palace.

Andreas scrambles to his feet, his muscles taut and sore from hours bent over meaningless pieces of paper telling of a blithering incompetence when it comes to the military. Had his patience worn thinner - like his father’s - he would have had them all demoted and chastised. If he were a king, he would have had them hanged. Or flayed. Or drowned.

Needless to say, Andreas is angry.

And the coming of the translator sets him on an edge he is certain to fall from. First impression is all, and Andreas - ravishing, handsome, perfect, gem-like Andreas - is very much set on dazzling the man vaunted to be a prodigy, a genius, who has come all the way from the southern provinces to the stifling court of Tolede.

Clearing his throat, placating a smile he hopes charming on his face, Andreas tugs at the hem of his velvet doublet lined with golden threads - a simple outfit, really when it comes to his wardrobe - and says with a commanding voice, “Come on in.”

A boy - more than a man - steps in and Andreas is stricken dumb. He was told the translator was a prodigy, but they clearly forgot to mention the obvious. He is handsome. Quite simply the most beautiful man Andreas has ever seen. Possibly one of the most cryptic man he has ever seen, a code, a whole new Holy Book to discover. A language on his own.

Andreas blinks. His blue eyes clear.

He takes him in.

He  _ breathes  _ him in.

He’s lean - oh so lean! - lean like a twig, and he bears himself calmly, but his poise does not reek of brazen confidence, it does not meet the usual cockiness of a nobleman: his is almost hesitant as if standing here, in a room arrayed with royal decorum does not suit him. As if he wants to be elsewhere. Andreas notices his long fingers, brushing the side of a quill, his knuckles, his brown skin, sun-kissed, luminous even in the dim light. He notices the beauty spots dotting his face, an infinity of them tethering his eyes to him, enticing his lips to just brush them with reverence. He notices the set of his jaw, the nonchalant pout of his lips, the deep black of his hair, a myriad of curls setting it alive.

And then, he stops. His eyes meet his and he quite simply stops. Fascination floods over him. His heart is still beating against his ribs, but he checks, just to see.

His eyes are what strikes him the most in his beauty. One of them is a deep brown and melts a little in his other one, a vibrant green. If he cares to look - which he doesn’t for fear of being impolite - Andreas can see specks of gold and other colors scattered here and there.

For a moment he wonders if he finds him handsome too. For a moment he doubts his own beauty, because who could possibly be more handsome than this boy and his unreadable face? Who can pretend to such a peculiar example of masculinity? Who can pretend to be so innocent, so smooth, so soft, and still pertain an armor of general indifference? 

The contrast conjures a smile on the prince’s face.

He draws in a sharp inhale and moves his hand forward. The translator seems to be aware of social conventions because he bows at once, takes his hand in his and leans for a kiss.

The contact sends shivers down the prince’s spine. Never before had he been touched with such gentleness. Never before did he feel the ache for more. Not even his best friend has touched him like that - Lorenz is more the kind to tackle him or punch him in the arm, which Andreas doesn’t mind. His fingers are soft on his skin and Andreas feels a blush creeping from the crook of his neck to the nape of it. His hair lifts beneath his rich clothes.

_ (And it’s not the only thing to rise) _

It almost sends him reeling the way his skin is warm. It almost sends him sighing the way his fingertips are smoothed. He wonders for a moment about the use they have over paper, how they might smooth over dried ink, how they can pinch the quill. He loses himself in the sensation, wishing to be paper and be written by so extraordinary a man.

Andreas chose well.

And then his lips touch his hand and Andreas nearly tips. It takes him all of his willpower, all of his poise not to succumb to this. It feels different and he doesn’t know why. It feels familiar in a way only poets describe. Andreas is a romantic, naturally - his love for literature, flowers and sonnets know no other bound but his free time - and so he loses himself into the fantasy of them being here by the will of God, of them being long lost companions, of them being friends. He is not even paying attention to his hammering heart. All of his cells are focused on his mouth, as if by touch alone, the translator was able to grow roots to tether him.

For the briefest of seconds, Andreas wonders what it must feel like to be kissed by those lips.

The contact ignites him, sets him ablaze and no fire has ever felt this good, this right. No fire has left him wanting to consume in the flames. Andreas wishes time would freeze. Andreas  _ prays  _ time freezes. So that for a moment he can feel those things he denies himself. So that for a moment he can lose himself in the familiarity and feel un-princely.

The translator’s lips leave his skin, leaving an iron-hot mark there. Andreas is sure he can see the print of him on his fair skin. The boy bares his teeth, just a little, but enough for them to brush against the prince’s knuckles. It feels hungry, ravenous. It feels like he could just bite him, consume him whole.

The boy’s brows furrow, just a little, and he lifts his head, eyes removed from the situation, an edge growing on his indifference. His lips are red and puffy and his jaw is set and Andreas suddenly bites his cheek to swallow his unbidden lust.

“Your highness,” the boy says, his voice cold, wound in a perfect accent.

A prodigy, they said, who is still holding his hand in his. Andreas almost blinks when he notices the glint of his eyes, the indecision, but it’s gone so fast he thinks he hallucinated.

“Sir…”

“Kamil,” he says. “Kamil Dollet,” he adds placidly.

“Dollet…” Andreas hums. “Reminds me of something but I don’t know what…”

“My mother,” he says. “She was born in Phos.”

Andreas frowns, confusion etched on his face. “A clarist?”

“Yes.”

“How come? Don’t you come from Alyxa? Should you be a clarist of a plesist? I must admit my confusion here.”

Kamil removes his hand hurriedly and Andreas gives an apologetic smile and offers him to sit down.

“My father is a plesist. He impregnated my mother and she sent me away, to him. I moved to Pietra when I was fifteen,” he explains as if it means nothing - as if he is untouched.

Andreas strokes his chin. “Oh. I see. It must have been hard coming here all alone, saying goodbye to your family and province.”

He shrugs. “It’s war. I had to move. That is all.”

Andreas doesn’t know what is worse, the horrors of war, or the casual indifference with which he speaks of it. That which marred him, Kamil makes no mention of. He shows nothing.

“I have heard you speak five languages,” he lifts his eyebrow, a grin plastered on his face. “That is impressive. Even I sometimes struggle with the three clarist tongues. And I am a prince!”

“It’s nothing much,” Kamil says, and for the first time, Andreas sees him blush at the compliment. It begins on his lobe and spreads to his neck. “I mostly learned traveling, reading, and speaking when needed.”

Andreas eases himself in his chair, his head resting on his hand. “Do you like literature, then, mr. Dollet?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, you will like it here. Obviously we have quite an extensive library, with every work you might desire to read - although we are lacking materials from Alyxa and Shanon, blame this on the Supreme - and quite an active literary scene. Mrs. de Faltier is especially fond of court in Wintertime. And Mr. Estienne has, if I recall correctly, a secondary house in the countryside,” Andreas says, his voice smooth like velvet, with an enticing lilt he has mastered over the years. “If you are not too busy with your work, naturally.”

Kamil is silent, eyes focused down on his satchel. Andreas notices the austerity of his outfit, the dark doublet, the lack of embroidery and adornments, the simple boots, the disheveled hair - he almost aches, seeing him so poor and yet so laden in talent and intelligence. A rose unplucked that will wither if not put into a crystal glass.

Andreas wants him lavish. He wants to parade him - for his own pleasure but also as an act of good faith towards the plesist community.

“The translation of the plesist Bible in all three of the clarist tongues if I am being correct?” Andreas asks.

Kamil’s eyes snap back into place and stare widely at Andreas as if he had just realized he was in the room with him. “Yes.”

“Well, you will enjoy your work space I hope.”

“Yes.”

Andreas lets out a silent laugh, bemused by the translator’s sudden silence. For a man used to handle words, Kamil does not show proficiency in speaking.

“And if you need to pray - whatever it is - I swear on my honor as a gentleman to allow it and provide an escort. My best friend, Lorenz de Villeray is one of the best swordsmen in the realm.” And, because he cannot help it, his hand slides and reaches for his upper arm. “No harm will come to you from the clarists so long as I breathe.”

Kamil’s breath catches and he withdraws. His neck is pink. “Thank- Thank you, your highness.”

“There’s no need,” Andreas says, suddenly wound up with emotion. “Mathias will show you your room.”

“Thank you,” Kamil says, scrambling to his feet and quickly bowing.

“I look forward to working with you, Kamil.”

He says it as a promise, as something grand and sincere and he can see Kamil’s shoulder slumps a little. And just like that it’s gone and he is indifferent again. Nothing can touch him. Nothing can move him.

And Andreas, for the first time, yearns to learn a new tongue.

“And I with you, your highness,” Kamil says.

And there’s something behind his words, something Andreas is too oblivious to notice, a soft menace thrumming with every sound. And Kamil leaves and Andreas is alone again but this time it’s not cold and angry. It’s a soft aloneness that allows him to relish it a little longer, to fully take Kamil in. To fully realize what he’s doing.

He’s allowing a plesist at court. He’s allowing a plesist translator at court. He’s allowing an enemy at court. Andreas is playing with fire, but in the end he knows it is worth it.

Because for better or for worse, Kamil is part of his great plan.


End file.
